


Mind the Gap

by destieltothegrave



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), Blond Dean, Crime Scenes, Dark Humor, Former Asshole Dean, Friends to Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Maverick Cas, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Plot, Protective Castiel, Rich Boy Dean, Slow Burn, some violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-28
Packaged: 2019-06-22 00:24:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15569673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destieltothegrave/pseuds/destieltothegrave
Summary: Dean was being cruel. He knew it then, watching him flush and struggle to change the subject. He knew it before, every time his jaw tightened and his eyes shuttered at the sight of the latest piece hanging off Dean's arm. But like the leech Dean was, he needed Cas’s devotion to live, clinging to him, depending on him. He cared about Dean when no one else did. Fought for Dean.  As much as he’d wrapped himself around him, Cas, poor, perfect, foolish Cas, was just as tightly wound.So it was a surprise to no one that when Dean Winchester inevitably fell, it was Cas he dragged down with him.Ten years after Dean ruined Castiel Collins' life, fate decides it's time to collect.





	1. Oops She Did it Again

 

Chapter One: Oops She Did it Again

“Sheila. Sweetheart. So thrilled to see you again. New haircut?”

          The flickering fluorescent lighting of the police station illuminates Sheila’s trademark scowl in it’s full glory. Puckering her lips, she taps away at her keyboard and ignores Dean. She does that a lot. Ignore Dean, that is. Dean chooses to take it as a personal challenge. 

Dean finishes writing his name on the sign-in sheet and hops from foot to foot in his thin jacket. “Can I collect my little convict now?”

          Not even a glimmer of a smile. Damn, she’s a tough cookie to crack. But if history is any indication, this isn’t his last three am run to the police station. Hence, more opportunities to find the inner child Dean just knows is hiding somewhere behind Sheila’s whiskered exterior.

          After taking her sweet time shuffling papers on her cluttered desk, Sheila stands and gestures for Dean to follow her. She's wearing the same tweed coat she's had on the last two times Dean's swung by the county police station. A coat she ferments in mothballs, if the musty reek is any indication.

          “Dean!” Benny grins as they pass each other in the hall. “Second time this week, huh?”

          Dean winks. “Can’t go long without setting eyes on that handsome face of yours, Benny.”

          Sheila grimaces at the exchange. Or perhaps at his general existence. Dean pats her shoulder. “Don’t worry Sheils, you know you’re his main girl.”

          “Hands,” she grunts, shrugging Dean off.

Benny pauses outside his office and grins wolfishly. “That rule doesn’t apply to me.”

 “Noted,” Dean chuckles.

They round the corner. Two jail cells sit next to each other. One is empty, and in the other slumps a nineteen-year-old pain in his ass.

          She’s sitting with her hands clasped between her parted knees, back bowed and head hanging. If Dean didn’t know she was as close to heretic as they come, Dean might’ve thought she was praying.

          At their approach, her head snaps up. Relief filters through bright blue eyes, followed quickly by dread. As it should. The amount of trouble this slip of a girl has been on both his sleep schedule and his sanity is unbelievable. Dean pins her with a cold glare that he has on good authority can instill the fear of God into just about anyone.  

          She pales. Beside Dean, Sheila is fiddling with a large key ring, mumbling as she flicks through at least twenty identical silver keys. After a quarter of a century, she slides the correct key into the cell door and slides it open.

          Despite her palpable trepidation, Claire doesn’t hesitate to launch herself into his arms. Dean rocks back on his heels; she may weigh less than a straw hat, but the girl’s packing some power.  

          “I’ll need you to fill out a few more papers on behalf of the school,” Sheila says, glancing at Claire distastefully. “This is her third write-up this month. Our collaboration with the Westmason Drug Program mandates we report her.”

          Claire’s arms tense around Dean. Dean places a soothing hand on her pink hair. It wouldn’t do for her to pitch a fit in front of Sheila and sink herself deeper in this abyss. Once again, it’s up to Dean to pluck his favorite student from the crosshairs of expulsion. “I’m the head counselor for the program. Consider her reported.”

          “The paperwork-”

          “C’mon Sheils. I don’t wanna be here, you don’t want me here. Let’s let the paperwork slide this time around, huh?”

          Sheila’s lips thin. His answering smile is beatific.

          “If she’s taken into custody again before the end of the semester, I will personally see to it that Dean Mayenard is aware of exactly what kind of students his counselors sponsor. Is that clear, Mr. Winchester?”

          Before she’s finished with her threat, Dean’s tightened his arms around Claire. Just in time too, as she attempts to twist around and lunge at Sheila.

          Dean grits his teeth. “Crystal.”

          They make it out of the police station with no other incidents. All in all, he’d consider it a win. He's been in too many police stations, and a lot of times the situation goes sideways. He’s what one might tactfully call _lippy_ , and in the heyday of his teen years, pissing off authority was his bread and butter. Of course, back then, Dean had rich parents to clean up his messes. Claire’s parents haven’t been in the picture for a while. The only details Dean could dig up were foster care files, and those things were grim enough to send Dean digging for the bottle of bourbon hehid behind the file cabinet in his office. Far as Dean knows, he’s the only one the cranky teen has. Which, yikes. Raw deal for her.

 As soon as they’re comfortably seated in his car, Dean ramps up the heat as high as it’ll go and starts the engine.

          They’ve just pulled onto the highway when Claire heaves a sigh. “Out with it. Go on.”

          “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

          “Mr. W, I’m too tired for the scenic guilt trip, okay? Just read me the riot act so I can nap.”

          She does look wrecked. Her lovely hair, dyed a light pink and flowing down her back, is frizzy and tangled. The heavy eye makeup she persists in slathering on is smeared. The blouse she’s wearing has a collar that appears to be torn, it’s hem hanging low over her chest. Her leggings are thin and wearing at the knees.

          “When will you stop dressing like a thug? I wouldn’t be surprised if they kept arresting you solely to spare the public from laying eyes on your get-ups."

          Claire fingers her frayed collar. “This is the turtleneck you gave me for my birthday. Like what I did?”

          Dean should’ve left her in jail, he swears to God.

          “That turtleneck was expensive!”

          “I kept the turtle! I could just do without the neck, you know? Makes me feel like I’m being choked.” She pauses. “And not in the sexy way.”

          “Claire Lynn More!”

          She leans her head against the window and laughs softly. The light from passing cars illuminates the sharp angles of her face, the dark shadows under her eyes. There’s an age-old weariness in the way Claire carries herself, always has been. It was one of the first things that drew Dean to the troubled girl. She’s headstrong and rebellious and prone to idiotic decisions, but at the core, she’s a good person. Life dealt her a shit hand and she’s been trying to make the best of it.

          Today, she seems more worn than usual. There’s a sallowness to her cheeks Dean doesn’t like. When was the last time she ate anything? He’s afraid to find out.

          He’s mentally running through what he’s got in the fridge that could constitute a meal-which isn’t much, unless you count half a tomato and chemically hazardous Chinese takeout- when Claire says, almost inaudibly, “He was supposed to come back for me.”

          And there’s the crux of the matter, folks. “Dominic? He’s the reason he’s picking you up from the county jail for the third time this month?” Frustration runs hot through Dean. Dominic is a twenty-four-year old trust fund brat with too much time on his hands and delusions of street glory. He’s had Claire under his spell since she was a college freshman, and nothing that dipshit does-and he does _plenty-_ seems able to break it.

          “It’s not his fault. His parents were home and he couldn’t slip loose long enough to come get me.”

          Dean purse his lips, counting down from ten. “This is the third time they’ve arrested you trying to sell _his_ pot.” He’s using her, it’s clear as a California day, but saying it is a waste of breath. She’s got blinders on when it comes to that shit-dick.

          Turning into his driveway, Dean switches off the ignition, pitching the car into darkness. Claire wraps her arms around herself, following Dean up the steps leading to the front door. He’s trying to reign in his irritation, but it’s difficult. Most days, he’s good at being good. Dean donates, he founded and runs a rehabilitation program at Westmason. He recycles. Dean doesn’t waffle over decisions, because nine times out of ten, the answer is clear as day. Removing emotion from the equation has a marvelous way of making life make some sense, but it comes with consequences. Among them, not having the proper sympathetic tools to talk to a lovestruck teenager who’s dumping her life down the drain for a goddamn hoodlum.

          _Hoodlum_. Jesus. he’s too young to be this old.

          Dean lives in a cheerful yellow bungalow off the third of Coast Plaza, walking distance from the nearest coffee shop but far enough away from the thick of it that Dean doesn’t have to worry about running into Westmason students all the time. He’d saved to buy this place for two years. Blood, sweat, and tears had gone into the check Dean handed the bank. When he hung his first decoration (a ‘No Solicitors’ sign on his front gate, because those Jehovah’s Witnesses had a knack for always catching him when he was running late) he’d never felt prouder of himself.

          There’s a lavender tree in the tiny front lawn, hanging too low and full of buds preparing to bloom in the spring. They have to push the branches aside as they walk up the steps to the front door. As soon as Dean crosses the threshold, calm washes over him. This place might not be much, but it’s his, and that’s more than enough.

 Dean tosses his keys into the bowl and motions for Claire to enter quickly.

          “You have a nice place,” Claire remarks. “Why haven’t I been here before?”

          “Because the administration might frown on a school employee letting a student crash on his couch,” Dean replies dryly. He sheds the coat he’d thrown on over his pajamas and moves for the kitchen. “Take a seat. The heat’s been running since ten, so you’ll warm up fast. If you’re still chilly, there’s an afghan over the couch.”

          “This is so…domestic.” Claire hefts the checkered afghan over her shoulders, following Dean into the kitchen like a lost puppy. Dean shoos her to the table. Last thing this night needs is for her and his afghan to go up in flames as soon as he lights his stove. “I expected your place to be all vinyl and leather and steel. A true bachelor pad.”

          “Why would you think that?” Dean asks distractedly. He’s got to have at least one clean mug in here. Jesus, when was the last time he bought new dishware?

          “Cause you’re ancient and single. I figure, there are three reasons for that. You hate people, your personality is crap, or you have a secret sex dungeon and you’re waiting for a naïve virgin to trip into your office.”

          He’s going to drive her back to Sheila himself at this rate. _Youths._ “There are plenty of reasons someone’s single, most of which are not due to  _Fifty Shades of Grey_ aspirations. And I hardly think thirty-two qualifies as ancient.”

          Dean instructs her on how to pour the tea over the bag when the kettle whistles (apparently Claire’s classmates _microwave_ their tea. Microwave. Dean can’t with this generation) and heads to his room to find a sweatshirt.  

          Dean Mayenard, known more affectionately in his bedroom as Stephen, would blow a gasket if he knew Dean was letting Claire spend the night. He’s got it in his head that she’s a bad egg, that every student who goes through the Drug and Alcohol Program is destined to be a castoff of society. No matter how Dean explains it, Dean can’t get it through Stephen’s head that the only difference between those students and the rest of the student body is that Dean's students get caught. An engineering major, Claire is smart as a whip and has the grades to show for it. Her only fault?

          A daddy’s boy with an expensive haircut and a cheap pastime.

          If it weren’t for his affection for Dean, he’s sure Stephen would have expelled her the second semester of her freshman year. Spring semester was…especially wild for Claire. As it is, Dean’s dragged her into her sophomore year with the skin of his teeth. But Claire doesn’t make it easy. The fights, the drugs, the drinking…it’s like looking into a mirror of his past, and he’s terrified to the core that she won’t have the chance to set her course straight like Dean did.

          When Dean goes back to the living room, spare set of cotton pants and sweater in tow for Claire to sleep in, she’s nowhere to be found. The kettle sits quietly on the stove, the last of its steam curling around the spout.

          “Claire?” Dean calls. Alarm slashes through him. “Claire!”

          “Garage!”

          Dean drops the clothes on the couch and storm down the hall. Sure enough, Claire is in the garage, sitting on a downturned crate and flipping through something on her lap.

          “There will be no more disappearing tonight, got it? I need sleep. It takes everything I’ve got not to strangle your peers on a good day. I need eight uninterrupted hours.”

          “Who’s the guy in these pictures?” Claire inquires. Dean goes still. he’s rarely in the garage, and the last time he cared enough to store pictures somewhere other than his phone-

          “It’s rude to go through people’s things,” Dean snaps, snatching the album off her lap. He catches a brief glimpse of two teenage faces, young and bright and full of hope, before he slams the drawer shut.

          Properly abashed, Claire cradles her steaming mug close, lowering her gaze. “I’m sorry.”

          The glimpse of the photos, brief as it was, has eviscerated the last of his patience. “It’s time to go to bed. I’ll make up the couch for you.”

          Claire apologizes a few more times while Dean sets up the couch. He tries to smile, but his mood has only grown more foul, and when he finally gets to bed, sleep doesn’t come easy. The face in the album has a spotlight behind his closed eyelids, and it’s a long time before darkness erases its glow.  

         

          _Dean huffs the fumes of the cigarette through his nose, chortling at the twin streams of smoke. “Cas, look! I’m a dragon.”_

_Despite doing his damnedest to tune Dean out and finish his calculus homework, Cas snickers. “You’re insane.”_

_“And you’re boring,” Dean whines. “It’s lunch, let’s ditch the rest of our classes and go get drunk by the marina.”_

_“Normal kids don’t get drunk by the marina in the middle of the afternoon. Normal kids do their homework and pop their zits in the bathroom.”_

_Dean stubs his cigarette off on the lunch table, surveying their surroundings with disdain. When John put Dean in public school as punishment, Dean had pitched a tantrum to end all tantrums. Why did Sam get to stay in Riverfield while Dean was mainstreamed with society’s rejects? How dare they put Dean, their supposedly beloved son, in this travesty of an institution?_

_Sam hadn’t understood Dean’s frustration. He’d been begging to go to public school for years, but the kid was a genius. No way were John and Mary risking his brains eroding under state-funded education. Dean’s brains, on the other hand, were safe and sound from such threat._

_Dean had been set to dramatically run away. He planned to snatch the Impala keys from John’s coat pocket while he took his post-dinner nap on the couch, stuff every penny of his weekly allowance into his wallet, and he'd written a bitter goodbye note to be found upon his departure. Then he’d made the mistake of cutting in front of Castiel Novak in the assembly line the morning of the big event._

_Dean was sort of aware the guy existed. He was attractive, in the annoying sort of way where everyone but him knew it. Dark hair perpetually sticking up around his head, cerulean eyes clear as the Mykonos waters of Greece, and a mouth someone someday would write sonnets about. He sat behind Dean in all their shared classes, taking notes and paying attention to their teachers while Dean listened to music and threw spitballs at the back of Bela’s head. Where Dean was loud and brash, constantly the center of attention, Cas faded into the background, studious and detached. Until that day._

_Oh, did he read Dean the riot act that day. Called Dean a spoiled brat, an unrepentant asshole, a soon-to-be washed up has-been (creative, if redundant). He had to be escorted to the principal’s office until he settled down._

_Suffice to say, Dean was won on the lad._

_Fast forward two years later, and they’re super-glued to each other’s sides. Cas is his best friend, his ride-or-die, and Dean is the lovable pain in his pedestrian ass._

_“Cas, buddy, there’s nothing normal about you when you’re with me,” Dean cracks, wagging his brows. But Cas’s smile dims, clouded over by something Dean can’t decipher._

_Today, his messy hair is frizzing at the ends from the humidity, and there’s a smear of mustard on his chin from the sandwich he’d been chomping on in between scribbling notes._

_Dean rubs it off with his thumb and pops the digit in his mouth curiously. Cas’s eyes widen._

_Dean smacks his lips. “Salty. Huh.” Another lick. “You taste good.”_

_Dean was being cruel. He knew it then, watching him flush and struggle to change the subject. He knew it before, every time his jaw tightened and his eyes shuttered when Dean had a new boy or girl on his arm. But like the leech Dean was, he needed Cas’s devotion to live, clinging to him, depending on him. He cared about Dean when no one else did. Fought for Dean.  As much as he’d wrapped himself around him, Cas, poor, perfect, foolish Cas, was just as tightly wound._

_So it was a surprise to no one that when Dean inevitably fell, it was Cas he dragged down with him._

 

         

 

Westmason University. Located in central California, that awkward middle part of the great state that nobody really remembers because it’s not the Bay or LA. The cost of living here is almost acceptable. More importantly, Dean can buy a cup of coffee without breaking the bank.

What Westmason lacks in academic achievement, it makes up for in beauty. The campus is sprawling and verdant. There are endless fields and volleyball courts to lure the undergrads from their dorm rooms into the sun. Many a time, when the sun gleamed off the manicured lawn in front of the imposing brick building where he worked, the quiet chattering of students meandering past in his ears, Dean felt like the luckiest son of a gun in the world. The professors might show up toasted on occasion and campus police has a nasty habit of taking their jobs a little too seriously, but all in all, it’s not the worst place to work.

          Except today.

Dean balls up the fifth sheet of paper, tossing it with little accuracy into the wastebasket in the corner. The shot goes wide.

The windows of his office are shoved open, but he’s suffocating. Each word Dean has to read is an affront, every document requiring his signature a colossal waste of time. He’s not sure if it’s the lack of sleep, or the sleep Dean _did_ get that’s got Dean ravenous to tear something to pieces with his teeth.

He’s opened and closed Google at least forty times since walking in this morning. Each time, Dean haltingly typed in his name, index finger tip-tapping over the search bar. There’s no point. Cas’s social media presence is nonexistent. The last piece of information Dean could scrounge up on him was shortly after graduation, a taciturn newspaper announcement that he’d enlisted in the military. Since then, nothing, nada, zilch. It’s been ten years. For all Dean knows, he could be married to a lovely woman who smiles with her teeth and have a houseful of bouncing babies. Or a man with abs of steel who drinks protein shakes for breakfast and reads Russian literature for fun.

Dean shouldn’t care. He doesn’t care. This is just a side-effect of a sleepless night and seeing those photos last night.

          Becky walks in just as the sixth balled up sheet goes flying. It misses, again, and Dean spits a curse profane enough to put the filthiest pirate to shame.

 Becky’s brows shoot up. She blinks in quick succession. “You okay, boss?”

“What do you need, Becky?” Generally, Dean tries to do right by the student interns. It’s not their fault society has chosen to treat them as glorified house servants.

“Claire is here to see you. She says it’s an emergency.”

Dean’s nostrils flare, and he only _just_ keeps from baring his teeth. “Then why isn’t she standing where you are right now?”

“I-you seemed busy, I didn’t know if-,”

“Now you know. Send her in.”

          Becky scurries off, tail between her legs. Dean shoves the heels of his hands into his eyes, warding off the threads of a migraine that threaten to wrap around his skull. He’ll need to apologize to Becky later. Dean hates apologizing to people almost as much as he hates dealing with them.

          He senses it when Claire enters the room. Without moving, Dean says, “Close the door and take a seat.”

          The door snicks shut. “Are you alright? Is this a bad time?”

          Dean drops his hands. “Didn’t you tell Becky it was an emergency?” _Don’t be an asshole. Don’t be an asshole._

          “Yes, but-”

          “Then it doesn’t matter if it’s a bad time, does it?” The tendrils of the migraine spreading from the back of his skull sink deeper, sending branches of pain curling around his temples. He wants an Advil and a dark room. “What do you need, Claire?”

          Claire twists a strand of hair around her finger, a nervous habit she can’t seem to drop no matter how many times Dean warns her she’ll bald from it. “Dominic wants me to make another drop tonight. He says this one is a game-changer.”

          Volcanic rage swells in his chest. With great difficulty, Dean tamps it down, lest he risk pushing the wrong button and sending Claire running. She’s already got a skittish look about her, and she hasn’t stopped fidgeting since she sat down.

          “Why are you telling me this?”

          She’s obviously expecting the question. The abused strand of hair twists like a noose around her finger. After a beat, she lifts her gaze to Dean’s. There’s a newfound determination there that surprises and pleases him. “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be kicked out of Westmason.”

          _Yes._ This is the breakthrough he’s been waiting for. Dean sits up in his chair, a rush of energy chasing away his fatigue. “Good. It’s about time.”

          “But I’ve still got the stuff,” she says, lowering her volume. “If I don’t do the drop, he’ll come get it, and he’ll be pissed.” She holds her hand up when Dean opens his mouth. “And if you’re going to say I should go to campus or county police, save it. We both know they’ll just end up arresting me instead of the golden boy. His parents donate millions to Westmason, Mr. W. He’s got me sown in.”

          If Dean set sights on that greasy piece of shit, Dean had every intention of squeezing the paste right out of his spindly little body. He’s sure Benny will spring him if he plays his cards right. Or Sheila. She hides it, but deep, deep, down, Dean just know she loves him.

          Dean comes to a decision. A stupid one. One that might be beyond what Stephen can forgive. But Claire is sitting there, exhausted, losing weight she can’t afford to lose, slipping out of Dean’s reach little by little each day. His job is to rehabilitate at-risk students at Westmason. No one can accuse Dean of doing anything half-way.

          “Give me the stuff. I’ll do the drop, and you’ll never have to see Dominic again. You can put him and this awful business behind you.”

          He’s known her for over a year now, and become adept at reading Claire’s unspoken cues. She blinks owlishly, strangling the strand of hair until Dean leans over and gently extricate it from her death grip. “You’re welcome, squirt. Come by my place an hour before the drop time. Bring ‘the stuff’.” He catches himself doing air quotes and hurriedly drops his hands, annoyed with himself.

          The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Dean embarked on his when his life took on the unsettling quality of a Nicholas Cage action flick.

 

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *breathes fire* I CANNOT BELIEVE I AM BACK ON MY BULLSHIT. The only justification I have for writing what will likely be another novel-length piece of fanfiction is that I fully intend to rework and publish it once it's completed. 
> 
> OTHERWISE I WANT EACH OF YOU TO KICK MY TEETH IN
> 
> Tags may change because, obviously, I am a finicky bitch. I'll try to keep updates regular at every week, but I'm currently not in the country and the Wifi is spotty at best. Still, I shall persist. 
> 
> Also, if you are any of these, please find me on tumblr:  
> 1) a resident of England (specifically Manchester)  
> 2) someone interested in potentially beta-ing this work  
> 3) alive


	2. Stunned in Two

Chapter Two-Stunned in Two   


  


Dean pats the breast of his coat for the hundredth time, reassuring himself that the lump hasn’t moved. When Claire had presented him with a velvet box, the kind housing a Tiffany’s bracelet you’d slide across the table to your irate lover, Dean had held it between thumb and forefinger like it was liable to bite.

          “There’s weed in here?” he’d asked, skeptical. The box was latched shut, a tiny circle denoting the place where a key would go. “Must be some primo stuff.”

          Claire had fidgeted, shuffling her feet and avoiding Dean’s eyes. “I guess so.”

          Pacing around the cement pillar of the parking lot, Dean checks his watch for the thirtieth time. He’s been waiting for twenty minutes. Claire dropped off the box with explicit instructions on what to do. They were deceptively simple. Go to the exchange location- which in this case happens to be the parking garage of a deserted outlet mall- and wait.

          Despite his youthful good looks, Dean was not actually born yesterday. Claire was hiding something. If there’s weed in that velvet box, then Dean’s a goat’s son. But what can he do about it? Regardless of the deception, he’d rather be the one standing in this sketch parking lot over Claire any day of the week.

          As an action movie fanatic, Dean’s seen a scenario like this play out in a variety of ways, most of them bloody. Which is why he’d taken a few precautionary steps, starting with the sleek firearm tucked into the waistband of his jeans. The gun belonged to his Dad, a fancy Colt he’d kept mounted in a glass case in the third-floor study of their old home. Dean would press greasy fingers against it and beg Dad to let him practice with it. Dad’s reaction would be to ruffle Dean’s golden hair affectionately and tell him to wait a little while longer, but Mom…oh boy. Anytime Dean expressed the slightest interest in any of his father’s hobbies, his mother would take it as a personal offense of the highest degree. Still, Dean got good with the Colt, and it’s presence is a comfort. It’s bulk is covered by the coat, and he hopes he’s not in a situation where he needs a quick draw.

          The other precaution Dean had taken was bringing along a replica. Luckily (or not, depending on how you look at it), he’d pissed off a lot of women in his time, and he still has a bag of apology gifts in the back of his closet. After pilfering through the rings and copy-and-pasted poems, he’d found a box holding an emerald tennis bracelet that was an exact match for this box. The shades of blue were slightly off, but it would do the job.

          It’s this fake-out box Dean is holding when he hears a distant clang. It sounds like someone taking a bat to the side of a tin Prius. His steps falter as Dean searches for the source. For the first time since Dean stepped out of the car, fear prickles down his spine. Dean assumed this would be a cut-and-dry exchange. Whatever’s in the box can’t be too important if they were having shit-for-brains Dominic do the drop. What’s the point of the theatrics?

          Maybe he should call the cops. Screw Dominic’s money bag parents. Dean may have been disowned, but his family name still has clout. Plus, he’s an important part of the community. The police would have to do their jobs if Dean called.

          The thought has barely occurred to Dean when he catches sight of movement to his left. Dean spins around, fingers flexing around the box. “Who’s there?”

          Five figures step forward, materializing from seemingly nowhere. They’re dressed completely in black, combat boots and gun holsters included. His jaw tightens at the sleek firearms belted at their waists. They flank a short, stodgy man, two on each side.

          Unlike the others, there’s no gun visible on the short guy. He’s wearing a fluffy lavender coat and scratching along his bearded jaw. He looks like someone's flamboyant uncle with a penchant for dipping into the schnapps before dinner.  

          “You’re a touch old to be Dominic’s piece, wouldn’t you say?” drawls the man who is clearly the head of this alarming operation.

          Twice in the same number of days Dean’s been insulted about his age. He’s thirty-fricken-two!

          Thankfully, he’s too outraged by this to comment on the absurdity of Dean touching Dominic with a ten-foot taser, let alone being his ‘piece’. These people think he’s dating Dominic, and last Dean checked, creeps who do business in an empty parking garage don’t like surprises. “He’s the beauty. I’m the brains.”

          He laughs, dragging his gaze over Dean in an overly-familiar, languid fashion. “Don’t sell yourself short.” Head Honcho nods at the box. “I believe that’s mine.”

          Finally. Dean wants this evening done and over with. Wary, Dean gestures at his cronies. “I want to see hands first.”

          Honcho grins. He’s got three gold caps on his canines. To his entourage he orders, “Do as the man wishes.”

          As one, they lift their palms in the air, uniform in their stoic obedience. A girl, the only one in the group, is watching Dean with more suspicion than the rest.

          The cold barrel digs into his ass cheek when Dean steps forward. He feels like they all _know_ , that the firearm at his back is obvious to each of the armed minions. He keeps one hand hovering by his side, ready to snatch for the gun, and holds the box out.

          Honcho closes his hand around it, but before Dean can withdraw, there’s a steely grip around his wrist. “I could have sworn I was instructed to look for a girl with pink hair. Dominic’s a knobber, there’s no denying, but that’s an important detail. Hard to mistake, even for him. And, well…forgive me, but you don’t quite look like a Claire.”

          _Fuck_.

          Dean wrenches out of his hold, groping for the gun at his waist as he stumbles back. He’s not nearly fast enough. Within seconds, four guns are trained on Dean, and Honcho is palming the box. “This was entertaining.” He nods to the nearest crony. “Don’t leave any traces.”

          He walks away, leaving Dean to what is shaping up to be a bloody, macabre fate. Staring down the barrel of death, Dean has the absurd urge to laugh. The theme song of that inappropriate children’s game rings through his head. _Dumb Ways to Die, so many Dumb Ways to Die._

Claire will miss him. Maybe Stephen, too, although it might be outweighed by his frustration at finding Dean’s replacement. Would Becky organize his funeral? Did post-mortem arrangements go under her work-study requirements?

          The girl who’d been glaring daggers at Dean since arriving suddenly groans. “Goddammit!”

          Dean tries to keep his eyes open, to look death defiantly in the eye and go out in a blaze of bravery. Instead, the hands he’s got raised in the air close into single finger salutes and he turns his head to the side. Grits his teeth. Waiting for the agony. Bullets tearing through flesh and bone. Maybe it’ll be a clean shot, and he’ll be there one second, gone the next. Maybe it’ll be slow and agonizing. He’s not sure which is better.

          _God, if you’re listening, I know I haven’t been the greatest person. I’ve probably made many a shit list or twenty in my time, but that’s all water under the bridge, right? I know I still haven’t given Christian Campbell from the physics department his stapler back, but Christian Campbell is a raging homophobe and racist. Technically I did society a favor by drawing dicks on his seminar posters._

          Shots ring out, deafening in the cavernous garage. Dean’s breath hitches and he automatically drops to a knee. Phantom aches explode along his body, anticipating the bullet.

The effort to groom himself into a contributing member of society was for naught. Dean should’ve smoked more weed. Eaten more pie. Why didn’t Dean eat burgers for dinner every night? God, Dean wants some pie. 

When he’s still crouching there, very much alive, Dean slowly comes out of his stupor. Did they…miss? From five feet away?

          “Get up. C’mon, pal, we have to beat it.”

          Slowly, disbelievingly, Dean peels open his eyes.

          Three bodies lay tangled near him. Three men who are, if the bullseye holes in their foreheads are any indication, have been executed by the impatient blonde in front of Dean.

          Acid burns Dean’s throat. He’s seen some vile shit in his day, but...one of the men’s wide, unseeing eyes is fixed right on Dean. They’re brown. This man was going to murder Dean in cold blood, and now his corpse is staring at Dean with blood trickling down the bridge of his crooked nose.

          His expression must give his intentions away, because she slaps her hand over his mouth. “No sound. Give me the keys to your car, right now. Hurry up. We have to go before Crowley decides to see what the hold up is.”

          Caught between the urge to vomit and resounding relief at his continued presence among the living, Dean absently hands her the keys, if only because the hand that’s not restraining Dean is holding a gun that’s likely still warm from firing those kill-shots. The girl walks Dean to the Impala while Dean counts his fingers and toes.

Meanwhile, the blonde starts rambling, voice tight with frustration and anger. “Five months. Five months I worked the fucker, down the drain. Why? Because Dom was dumb enough to try sending a teenager to do his job. Fuckin’ dimwit. And YOU, you’re a goddamn adult, you didn’t think details like _female_ and _pink hair_ might crop up?”

          To his bewilderment, Dean find himself being manhandled into the passenger seat of his own car. Blondie buckles Dean in, still ranting, and rounds the car to the driver’s seat. In the space of time between her sliding the key into the ignition and baby’s engine revving, Dean comes to the startling realization that he’s being kidnapped.

          “Get out of my car,” Dean says, slowly, picking up volume with the exponential increase of his disbelief. “What kind of a crack are you smokin’, lady?”

          Ignoring Dean, she peals out of the parking lot, burning rubber as she accelerates at an alarming rate.

          “Hey! Are you listening to me, Dye Job? Are my words too big for you? Pull over or I’ll have half the country’s police on your ass! Do you know who I am?”

          Threatening his kidnapper is probably not the best route to take, but what can Dean say? Dean gets mean when he’s nervous. Not like it matters anyway, since she hasn’t spared so much as a glance in his direction.

          _Can’t hit a woman. Won’t do it. Then again, she’s driving baby like we’re on the set of Fast & Furious. _

          Out of options and half-insane, Dean lunges for the steering wheel.

          Blondie curses, veering into the opposite lane. She slaps at Dean, trying to push him back, but he’s persistent. They grapple for the wheel. The loud honking of a truck horn and flash of headlights startles Dean back long enough for Blondie to regain her grip.

          He’s about to make his next move when she reaches for something on her hip and grunts, “I hate this day.”

          Dean makes another grab for the wheel, and in the same instant, her left hand slashes through the air. There’s a flash of the sleek handle of a gun. No time to move out of the way before pain explodes across his temple and everything goes black.

 

 

         

          Dean comes to slowly. His head throbs. The migraine he’d felt on the horizon this morning has officially set up camp in his cranium and introduced itself to every crevice of his skull.

          A male voice in the room brings Dean to full conscious immediately. His body tenses ever-so-slightly, but Dean does his best to pretend he’s still asleep. Steady breaths, loose limbs. “He’s going to lose it. You know he hates surprises. ‘Unknown variables’ and all that. What’re you going to tell him?”

          “The truth! Crowley was supposed to pick up the chip, I’d drive us to the ambush location, him and his crew would be arrested and we’d have the chip. Instead, I got this loud-mouthed asshole, three bodies, and a price on my head.”

          It’s Blondie. Odd as it is, there’s a measure of comfort in being near a semi-familiar person, even if said person cleaned your clock. A clock-cleaning Glock. Dean would snicker if it didn’t carry the risk of imminent demise.

          “Why didn’t you just drop him off at a hospital and book it?”

          “Were you born yesterday? Crowley probably thinks he was in on it with me. He’d track him down, torture him for answers he doesn’t have, and kill him. I’m not having that on my conscience, no matter how annoying he is.” Blondie pauses. “Not to mention dragging a six-something foot man into an emergency room isn’t exactly inconspicuous.”

          “Didn’t know you had a conscience. What a day. Bianca, the big ‘ol softie.”

          “Oh, shut up,” Blondie-or Bianca, Dean guesses- groans. “He tried to run us both off the road. Twice. Either the guy’s two fries short of a Happy Meal, or he’s got one hell of a death wish.”

          Dean shifts minutely, and something sharp digs into the flesh of ass. _His gun!_ It must have slipped under his waistband after Blondie cold-cocked him. Thank God he’d left the safety on, otherwise he’d have more to worry about then the two talking clowns somewhere to his right.

          They continue chatting while Dean tries to wedge his hand under his back, painstaking centimeter by centimeter. The fabric of his coat is thick and heavy, a curtain shielding his movements from sight.

          “Whatever. The boss will have to make do. We’ll set a guard on him and keep him around until we tie up this business with Crowley. He’ll understand.”

          “I don’t know...I’ve never seen the guy be ‘whatever’ about anything. He’s detailed to a fault. I’d think he was a robot, but robots can be programmed to crack a smile.”

          “He’s ex-military. What do you expect? He’s seen some shit.” A note of defensiveness creeps into Blondie’s voice.

          “Please. You’d say anything, Miss Longing Looks and Accidental Touches.”

          In all honesty, he’s intrigued by this bit of gossip about Blondie, but the prospect of meeting this mystery leader is not a pleasant one. If Blondie, who mowed down three trained goons in less than sixty seconds, is finding cause for trepidation, than Dean should be very, very worried. So as much as Dean wants to hear more about her ill-fated crush, it’s now or never.

          Dean opens his eyes. Pipes run over his head, crossing in a complicated system. Higher is a steel ceiling, glinting in the yellow florescence. Dean gathers he’s in some sort of warehouse. It’s the only assessment he can make before he focuses on his next move. Testing his grip around his pistol, Dean shores his courage.

          Counting to ten in his head, Dean snaps his body to the side. He’s up, pistol raised and shoulders squared, at the count of six. Along with a jawline that just won’t quit and linebacker shoulders, Dean has his father to thank for reflexes that never rust.

          Finally, fortune has chosen to throw Dean a bone tonight. His pistol is aimed directly at the back of Blondie’s head. Her buddy is facing Dean, and his eyes go wide when he sees the gun.

          Dean’s got an arm around her neck and the barrel to the side of her head before either of them can make a move. “Reach for that gun and I’ll decorate this room with her brain matter.” The dull thud of pain at his temple compels him to add, “All two teaspoons of it.”

          His threat must not have much of an impact on Blondie, because she huffs and says to her friend, “See? Told you. James Dean wannabe pain in the ass.”

          Dean lets the insult go to focus on something much more important. “If you scratched my car, nobody will find your body.”  

          The friend throws his head back to laugh. He’s an attractive Hispanic man with olive-toned skin, cropped black hair, and a shiny, white smile that in other circumstances Dean would enjoy having aimed at him. “Spitfire. I like it.”

          “Recess is over, friends. Blondie’s gonna walk me out of this place, and then I’m gonna drive away, and we’ll never speak of this little incident again. Sound good?”

          Before either of them can say anything, loud metallic clanking has all three heads swiveling towards the door. “Aw shit,” Blondie sighs.

          Dean tighten his grip on Blondie and shuffles them backwards, keeping his back to the cot Dean was lying on. The heavy slab of a door pushes open slowly.  

          “What’s going on?” a deep, gravelly voice rumbles, a second before the speaker comes into sight.

          Dean’s entire body seizes. Shock ripples through him, shorting out his thoughts and sending electricity charging through his veins.

          He’s still asleep. He has to be. No way he’s seeing what he’s seeing right now.

          But his last good memories of the person standing in front of Dean have him in baggy clothes, sporting a sweet, slightly cynical smile that had drawn Dean like a moth to flame. Dean remembers innocence and kindness, a fierce generosity of spirit that had shone from the awkward teenage boy.

          This version is older. Tall and muscular, filling out the plain black shirt and pants he’s wearing with corded power. His hair, once a rumpled, mad scientist mess atop his head, is neatly combed back against his head. A scar cuts along his throat, jagged and frightening, disappearing into his shirt. The plush, chapped mouth Dean spent years dreaming about is pressed into a tight line. His lovely eyes are clear and cold as the punishing ocean blue.

          Dean’s choked sound of disbelief seems impossibly loud. Blondie & Co are watching them stare at each other, and if Dean bothered to rip his gaze away from the fever dream in front of him, he’s sure they’d look as baffled as Dean feels.

          Shock register in ice blue eyes for a nanosecond before frosting back into blankness. He blinks, once, twice, and in the pause, Dean finds his words.

          “Cas?” Dean breathes.

          Cas’s eyes tick from Dean’s to something to his left. In his distraction, Dean hadn’t noticed Blondie’s friend creeping toward Dean.

          “Don’t-” Dean hears Cas start, and then pain explodes down the back of his head.

For the second time in this accursed day, Dean blacks out.

         

         

 

          _“Assault, Dean? Are you serious?” Cas’s disapproval is unmistakable. The car is dimly lit, the purr of the engine and motions of the car soothing to his upset stomach. The lights of the police station fade in the distance. Leaning his cheek against the cool window, Dean wonders if Mary is waiting for him. Doubtful. Ever since they arrested John for embezzling, she’s been a wreck. It’s kind of funny, actually. She drinks, Dean drinks. She gets high when she’s low, he’s high no matter what. They’ve got more in common than she thinks._

_“I’ll pay you back,” Dean says dully. Cas’s bailed Dean out multiple times, and he’s sure the bill isn’t cheap. They only suspended some of John’s assets after the trial, liquidating them for legal fees and compensation to the injured parties. The rest was Mother’s inheritance, or at least made to seem like it. Point being, Dean can pay Cas back for his friendship. A friendship he’s put to the test too many times._

_“You think that’s what I’m worried about?” Cas asks sharply. “This isn’t you, Dean. Parties, drugs, drinking. Now bar fights?_

_“Just spit it out,” Dean sneers, twisting in his seat. His silhouette is highlighted by the streetlamps illuminating the empty roads. “I’m turning into the spoiled brat you always accused me of being. Newsflash, Cas-I’ve been here all along. This is Dean Winchester in full technicolor.”_

_“No. This is Dean Winchester in pain.”_

_The comment, astute as ever, only pisses Dean off further. “Maybe you shouldn’t be friends with me then. ‘Cause this is all that’s left.”_

_The moonlight shines on Cas as he pulls up in front of Dean’s family mansion. The conviction glittering in his eyes has something weird dancing in the pit of Dean’s stomach._

_“You are so much more than this. And I’m going to prove it to you, one way or another.”_

“Hey, hands off the merchandise old man!” Dean yowls, slapping the doctor’s wayward stethoscope. The bespectacled older gentleman frowns sternly, like Dean’s an errant child whose antics just cost him a lime-flavored lollipop, but doesn’t stop his ministrations.  

          He’s been poking and prodding at Dean since he woke up ten minutes ago, humming a tuneless song under his breath as he checks Dean’s reflexes and inspects his head. Dean’s migraine has shot from bad to hell-on-earth-agony and his whole body hurts like he’s been flattened by a train and spat off the rails. Only to get promptly swallowed into a woodchipper.

          “Mr. Winchester, this will go much faster if you cooperate. I’m only trying to make sure you haven’t sustained any serious injuries.”

          Dean catches his bony wrist. His grip is tight, and he’s satisfied at the flash of alarm behind Doc’s glasses. Good. Despite evidence to the contrary, Dean is not a victim, or a damsel in distress. It’ll take a lot more than a potential brain bleed to subdue Dean.

          “How do you know my name?”

          He tries to pull free. “Mr. Winchester, really, this kind of conduct is unseemly-”

          “Unseemly? I’m sorry, am I not being a cooperative enough in my own capture? Should I go fetch the fucking ropes, perhaps loosen my jaw a little for the gag?”

          Doc yanks free, but the movement is hard and miscalculated, and sends him lurching towards Dean instead. The stethoscope is looped over his neck, a truly unfortunate choice for him, but lucky for Dean. Dean grabs each side and twists, crossing the rubber into an impromptu noose. Not enough to severely restrict his airway, mind you. Dean’s not a murderer. He is, however, desperate.

          Dean shoves them back, off the cot. The motion rocks his equilibrium, nearly sending Dean pitching to the floor. Crap, this head thing might be worse than Dean thought. Nausea broils in his gut. “Do you know how to open this door?”

          Doc is slowly turning purple. He shakes his head frantically. Oops. Dean loosen the reigns a bit.

          “I don’t believe you,” Dean sighs. “But I guess we’ll go with Plan B.”

          Plan B, of course, consists of Dean kicking at the door with all his might. He knows which part to kick, which side is the most likely to give. Years of growing up in a mansion with a little brother who liked to play hide-and-go seek. Let’s just say Dean was a dramatic seeker.

          The door doesn’t budge. If anything, the effort of kicking the thick metal door only cracks pain along his leg. Fricken Newton and his laws.

           This is bad. DEFCON levels of bad. Dean doesn’t know how many hours have passed since the showdown in the parking garage. Claire is going to be expecting his call by tomorrow at the latest, and if Dean doesn’t show up to work, she’ll know something’s wrong. The last thing Dean wants is for her to get involved in this mess, even if she might be the only person who could get Dean out of it.

          The door suddenly creaks open, startling Dean back a few steps. Blondie & the Fucker enter, wearing twin expressions of bemusement.

          “If it isn’t Barbie and Ken.” Dean gears up to let them know exactly which of their body parts will be gracing which orifices if his exit is not immediately secured.

          A third member enters the room, and Dean instantly falls silent.

          “Oh,” Dean says weakly. “Guess that wasn’t a dream.”

          Cas’s gaze lands on Doc. Namely, the Oxygen Lite hold Dean’s got on him. Automatically, Dean steps away, dropping the stethoscope. Doc stumbles back, massaging his throat and gasping in a decidedly over-dramatic fashion. Dean didn’t squeeze _that_ hard. Nothing like a little love strangle between friends.

          Without Doc’s weight to balance him out, Dean’s knees buckle, unable to support his weight. _Uh-oh_ , Dean thinks absently as the floor rushes toward him, _probably should’ve let the good doctor finish his check-up._

In a flash, strong hands catch Dean’s shoulders, hauling Dean upright. They release him just as quickly. Dean anchors himself on the cot, squeezing his eyes shut as the room goes Tilt-A-Whirl. Good thing he’d skipped dinner before this shindig. Woulda been a crying shame if he’d narfed all over Cas’s shoes.

          “What’s wrong with him?” Cas asks, gruff and low, like he’s irritated with himself for even posing the question. It’s the first time Dean has heard his voice in ten years. He hadn’t thought it was possible for his voice to get deeper, but the years have done plenty to strip the dewy-eyed youthfulness from Dean’s former best friend. His voice, growly and low and empty of all inflection, is both achingly familiar and… _not_.

          “He’s severely concussed. I can’t give you much else, since he saw fit to try his hand at strangulation before I could finish my examination.”

          “He’s a psycho.” This from Blondie, Dean thinks. “Total loose canon.”

          “Entertaining as hell, though,” says Asshole Friend. “Of course he’s concussed, guy’s gotten the tar knocked out of him twice in twenty-four hours.”

          “Twice?”

          They both go quiet at the simmering displeasure in Cas’s tone, temporarily replacing the careful emptiness. If Dean didn’t know any better, he’d think Cas actually cared. But appearances can be deceiving. The fact that _Dean is still in this warehouse_ is evidence enough.

          He’s afraid to open his eyes and watch the walls spin, but he’s got to know- “Where’s my gun? My phone?”

          “They’re both somewhere safe. You can have them back later. When you’re not actively trying to kill us,” Blondie replies archly. “Speaking of which, was your gun _warm_? You never fired it. So why was it warm?”

          “Had it saved somewhere real special for you, sweetheart,” Dean sneers. He forces his eyes open and focuses on a faded spot on the cot. Panic thrums through his veins, “People will notice I’m missing. The cops will be here any minute, and they will not be happy. Sheila might just do you in herself.” Another roll of nausea has Dean white-knuckling the scratchy blanket. “Adores me, that woman. Just ask anyone. Except her.” His throat is incredibly dry. Swallowing hurts. So does standing, speaking, and generally existing.

          A nap sounds nice. Just something short, a siesta if you will, before Dean gets started on Plan C. Third escape attempt is the charm, isn’t that how the saying goes?

          “Stu, could I have a word?” Without waiting for a reply, Cas strides to the door. He pauses alongside Blondie and Friend, inclining his head toward Dean. “Think you and Ricky can watch him for five minutes? Or is that too much to expect?”

          Sheepish, they shuffle their feet and make noises of assent. Before the door closes behind Doc and Cas, Dean spots a narrow hallway, hollow angles illuminated under the dim fluorescence. Large, Victorian paintings hang from the wall, evenly spaced down the hallway. But that can’t be right. What kind of warehouse is this?

          He’s too tired to care. The fight has officially left his body. His only earthly desire as of this moment is to be lifted onto the cot, because his legs have ceased cooperation. Succumbing to his concussion sounds relaxing.  

          “Are you, uh, okay?” Ricky inquires. From the across the room, Dean notes with a touch of satisfaction. Good. Let them be wary of Dean. His debilitated state might give him the bite of a chihuahua, but he’s still got his bark.

          “Peachy keen,” Dean snaps. “A samba line is pounding through my brain, I’ve been kidnapped by a truckload of psychos and my ex-best friend. How can I not be okay?”

          “Ex best friend?” Blondie repeats. “Who, Castiel?”

          “No, Stu, actually. We’re tight. Go way back.”

          “I’m gonna shoot him,” Blondie informs Ricky. She’s not the most patient of people, is she? Feisty. In normal circumstances, Dean might dig that.

          He temporarily loses track of time. He’s not sure if he falls asleep standing up, or goes into some kind of conscious coma, but the next thing Dean knows, the room is empty save Cas and Dean. His legs are braced against the bed, but he won’t sit. The scales are already so uneven between them; Dean refuses to concede another weakness. No matter how obvious his fatigue.

          “How do you feel?” Cas asks. It’s the first time he’s directly addressed Dean. The question is asinine. How does he feel? Who the hell cares how he feels? Why is he here? When is he getting out? These are the questions worth wasting air on.

          Still, this is Cas- _Cas!_ -so Dean stows his sarcastic impulses and answers honestly. “Like I’ve been cold-cocked by heavy firearms twice in a day. You?”

          His expression is neutral, but Dean catches his wince. “I had a discussion with Bianca and Ricky about their behavior.”

          “Whoop-dee-doo. I’m cured.”

          Cas exhales roughly, lips pursing. “You haven’t changed much, have you?”

          It’s an innocuous question on the surface, but Dean hears it for what it is: an insult of the highest caliber. He goes icy and haughty, the expression as familiar to him as breathing. They hadn’t called him the Iceberg for nothing. “Oh, but you have. Four years of friendship and I never pegged you as a cold-blooded criminal, Cas.”

          He knows Cas recognizes his aloofness for what it is, because his fingers curl at his sides. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Cas snaps.

“What’s this then? What’s _going on_? You vanish off the face of the planet only to show up here? With these trigger-happy nutjobs?”

          Dean teeters to the side from the force of his gesturing, but quickly rights himself. Cas is scowling, and it’s the first genuine expression Dean’s seen on him since this ordeal began. Which is shocking, to say the least. Cas didn’t used to be able to hide a damn thing from Dean. Dean could read him like Braille.

“You should sit down.” Cas tracks Dean’s swaying.

          “Answer my question!” Dean shouts, the fraying edges of his patience unraveling. “Why can’t I go home?”

          Cas reaches the end of his patience. “Because if I let you go, you’ll die!”

         

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, there's an important out-of-character element to this fic. Instead of the leather-wearing, overcompensating Dean Winchester we know and love, this Dean looks like Jensen Ackles did in "Blonde". His description will come up in the next chapter, but I wanted to give y'all a heads up. 
> 
> So what did ya think? I feed on your thoughts (a thought-cubus? Thucubus? heh) so this fic may grow stronger. And since I'm planning on trying to publish this bad boy once I'm finished with it, any and all criticism (gentle, tho, I am fragile) is welcome. 
> 
> I'm currently embroiled in preparing my law school applications and doing backstrokes in a cesspool of existential dread, but I'll continue updating at a regular pace. British pals-is it normal for universities to not have wireless Wifi?? I apparently need to bring an ethernet cable for my dorm?? 
> 
> Comments and kudos make my heart go ka-thunk


	3. Bargain

    Chapter 3-Bargain     

The world spins again. This time, Dean’s pushed back onto the cot until his back hits the wall. Bile burns his throat.

          “Stu says you’re concussed. You should try to rest.”

          The room settles back into place. Dean takes the opportunity to pin Cas with a venomous glare, which doesn’t appear to faze him in the least. He crosses his arms over his chest, waiting. Waiting for Dean to pitch a fit, to stomp and shout and raise hell.  

          But to both their surprise, Dean’s calm when he folds his hands in his lap. Acting rashly and mouthing off isn’t going to get Dean out of here any faster. He’s playing at a disadvantage right now. Assuming this Cas is the same one who rubbed his back when he vomited in the bushes behind Amy Kowalski’s house, the same Cas who held Dean’s hand on one of the worst nights of his life. This man here is the Cas that Dean betrayed, and Dean would do well to remember that.  

          “Die?” Dean repeats delicately. Like a fresh-from-the-oven croissant, buttery and smooth and most certainly _not_ flaking at the edges. “I’m going to die?”

          Cas’s sigh is world-weary. “You’re not going to _die,_ but you are in grave danger. While saving your life, Bianca inadvertently painted a target on your back. Crowley will be out for blood.”

          “I’m not afraid of that ass-wipe.”

          “You should be. He’ll stop at nothing to find you. Friends, loved ones, coworkers…”         

          “Claire,” Dean gasps. Immediately, Dean tries to scramble from the cot. “He’s going to go after Claire!”

          “Relax,” Cas grunts, grabbing his shoulders to keep Dean from pitching off the cot. “Dean!”

          “I have to find Claire!”

          “You won’t help either of you if you faint two steps to the door,” Cas grunts. The words succeed in eviscerating Dean’s struggle, and he slumps back. Claire is alone out there. It wouldn’t take much digging at all to find Dean’s favorite student, and as it were, Crowley already knows to look for a pink-haired college student.

          When he’s reassured Dean won’t try to hurl himself against the door, Cas slowly withdraws and crosses his arms over his chest. His very built, very impressive arms over an equally commendable chest. “Give me her details. I’ll have her picked up within the hour.”

          “Claire is a teenager in the rehab program I run at Westmason University. She’s the one who was supposed to do the drop tonight, but I went instead. She’s Dominic the dipshit’s pink-haired girlfriend.”

          Cas doesn’t so much as blink. “That does straighten out a few pesky details.” He makes no comment on Dean working at a university or running a rehab program. And why should he? How Dean’s life turned out is of no consequence to him. “I’ll have Bianca post a guard on her. Maybe bring her back here.”

          “And what? Keep us here until you find Crowley? Kidnapping is still a felony last I checked.”

          “I’m simply minimizing collateral damage,” Cas returns, infuriatingly placid. His refusal to rise to Dean’s bait only makes Dean that much more determined. “You weren’t supposed to be on site. Bianca’s been working Crowley for months, and by now he’s undoubtedly gone off the map.”

          Maybe it’s the concussion, but he’s having a tough time giving a single salted corn nut what happens to Crowley. Sure, he tried to off Dean, but who hit Dean over the head not once, but twice? That’s right. Cas’s cronies. Far as Dean sees it, the danger out there isn’t his biggest problem. “Not. My. Problem. I didn’t ask to be involved in any of this. I want to go home, Cas. Now.”

          “Too bad,” Cas returns. “You’re staying with us until we track him down. I’ll put a few of my people on your friend, make sure she’s monitored at all times. But you’re on lock down until Crowley’s dead or cuffed.”

          He starts for the door. Dean’s rage boils over, and he hisses, “I figured you hated me, but I never took you for the vengeful type.”

          The muscles in his back go rigid. Dean wants to swallow the words back. Bringing up the specter of the night Dean utterly ruined their friendship and almost destroyed Cas’s life is probably not in his best interest.

          Cas glances over his shoulder at Dean. His eyes are shards of glass, cutting and icy. “Don’t flatter yourself, Dean. It’s been a long time since I cared enough to hate you.”

                                      

 

         

_“No, Cas-fuck, just let me do it.”_

_“I can write a damn note, Dean! Let go!”_

_“You’re doing it all wrong! She’s not going to say yes if you write like our AP Lit teacher!”_

_When Cas slammed the pen to the notebook and roughly shoved away from the desk, Dean winced. Maybe he’d pushed too far. But who could blame him? Cas’s note read like a Walt Whitman rip-off. Popular girls didn’t dig that stuff. Didn’t appreciate the eloquence and sweetness of Castiel’s prose. April Lowly was definitely a popular girl. Dean had dated his way through most of her squad, he should know._

_“I don’t even want to go to the stupid dance. I don’t understand why you’re making me do this.”_

_“I can’t very well go get my tux tailored alone, now can I? I need you there, man. You know I hate these things.” Dean blinks imploringly, pouting and widening his eyes in a look that’s suckered stronger men than Cas._

_But Cas knows Dean too well. He pierces him with a long, searching stare. Like he’s got the power to crack Dean, see past his made-up layers to the real Dean beneath. That’s Cas’s problem. He always thinks there’s substance to Dean, like behind the beauty and pomposity there’s a shining soul waiting to be rescued. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d get lost in those meaningful looks. Believe them._

_Dean sucks his lower lip into his mouth in dismay when Cas doesn’t budge. He doesn’t want to face the prospect of going to Homecoming alone. He’d only asked Lisa Braeden because Cas had made a passing remark about how nice she was.  Dean, catty and possessive of Castiel’s attention as he is, had promptly asked Lisa out to prove Cas wrong. No nice girls go out with Dean Winchester anymore. Or at least, there’s nothing nice left when he lets them go._

_If he went alone, she’d spend the night trying to get Dean to talk to her while Dean sipped smuggled whiskey and stared blankly at the dance floor. Someone else would ask him to dance, and he’d say yes, because he’s an asshole and Cas said she was nice. Then he’d lead her to the hallway and kiss her. She would let him. He’d pull down her panties and get fingers inside her, growl filth in her ears. She’d come, and he’d feel better for a split second. Until she pulled her panties back up and kissed Dean, all breathy and adoring, like Dean hadn’t treated her like a second-rate citizen in front of her friends, like an orgasm erased bad deeds._

_He’d do her the courtesy of waiting until she was mingling with friends before he’d peel out there, leaving her without a ride. From there, he’d either drive to Cas’s house and sneak into his bedroom or call and invite him over._

_And despite the hour, despite his anger, Cas would come._

_Dean was snapped out his reverie by the scrape of the chair. Cas had dropped back into his seat and was balling up the paper. He pushed the notebook towards Dean, crossing his arms over his chest and sighing._

_When Dean didn’t move, Cas arched a brow. “Well? Let’s see what you’ve got, hot shot.”_

_Dean grinned, bright and boyish, and picked up the pencil. He pretended the longing on Cas’s face was for April Lowly and started writing._

 

          Beautiful. That was the first thing Dean knew about himself.

          It wasn’t some great revelation. He’d been adored as a child. He’d grown so used to people petting his hair or pinching his cheeks that he stopped reacting. To the public, he was Mary Winchester’s prized golden boy, shiny and coveted by the masses. Behind the pillars of their Victorian home, Dean knew better. _Moron-who gets a C in arithmetic, Dean? How will you ever hope to pass Algebra? What will people say about my remedial son? Looks will only get you so far if you’ve got none of the brains. Why can’t you be more like Sam?_

          For all intents and purposes, he was the all-American boy. Blonde hair fine as spun silk, kept long around his ears. Sharp cheekbones, a Roman nose, and dark lashes framing eyes green as summer apples. The kind of bone structure any art student would pay a prime dime to draw. He was tall and broad-shouldered but lean, muscles dense and compact. He has full, feminine lips that twisted into pretty smirks and peeled back over perfect, straight teeth. His only imperfections, as it were, are his bowlegs and the freckles that dot his nose and shoulders. Oh, how Mary had stormed and seethed when Dean spent too long in the sun the summer before third grade and returned home with freckles that wouldn’t go away no matter what cockamamie remedy she smeared on his face.

          Dean liked his bowlegs and his freckles. They gave him character. Time hasn’t changed much about his appearance. The blonde in his hair is a little dirtier, his jaw sharper, muscles more pronounced.

          Beautiful was the first thing Dean knew about himself, and for a long time, it was the only thing.

          Then a solitary bookworm with eyes like oceans and a heart bigger than the moon took one look at him and saw more than beautiful.

          Through him, Dean learned he was selfish. Vain. Petty. He was more than beautiful, alright. He was downright awful. The only redeeming part of Dean was his friendship with Cas. Because if a person as wonderful, as kind, as brilliant as Castiel Collins saw more to Dean, then surely all wasn’t lost.

          Rolling over on the cot, Dean considers the ceiling. He can’t sleep, not with the pain in his head. Ricky had come by to leave some Aspirin and a glass of water on the floor, but Dean hasn’t made a move towards the offering. Stupid. As if suffering in silence will make Castiel feel guilty when he’s clearly beyond giving a single shit about Dean.

          He’s got to get out of here. There’s no goddamn way Dean can survive being cooped up like this for weeks, possibly months. Didn’t they say Blondie was tracking Crowley for five months? The idea of spending that much time stuck in this pseudo-cell has Dean coughing out a deranged laugh.

          Maybe it’s the concussion, maybe it’s the steely-gazed blast from the past, but Dean feels like he’s in tenth grade again. Back then, he’d probably have resorted to all kinds of dramatics to get his way. Pounded on the door and screamed himself hoarse. Thrown the water against the wall. Hell, he might’ve downed half the bottle of Aspirin just to up the ante.

          Sighing, Dean sits up, back braced against the wall. The tops of his feet hang over the bed. The shoelace is untied on his left sneaker, a scuffed-up grey knockoff Nike he’s had what, three years now?

The sight makes him smile. High school Dean would never have worn anything older than a few months.

He takes a bracing breath. He’s not who he was anymore. That was the whole point of getting away, of starting over. Even if Dean feels like a fraud most days, he knows to the casual observer he’s nothing extraordinary. He’s average, not too wicked, not too saintly. No more hazy, endless parties, no more pills that made his head spin, no more girls and boys sprawled beneath him, looking up at him with feverishly wanting eyes that Dean didn’t bother to meet.

 After a decade of striving for average, Dean will be damned if Castiel Collins sends him spiraling back into who he was.

Eventually, the chill in the room becomes too much. You’d think they’d spring for central heating if they’re gonna keep people against their will. Dean heaves himself off the cot with a wince, steadying a hand on the wall until he’s sure he can walk in a straight line without faceplanting.

How long are concussions supposed to last? He vaguely remembers Sam getting conked by a soccer ball in tenth grade and his subsequent concussion, but he doesn’t recall more than vague images of Sam squinting at his homework through the pain like the obstinate, nerdy ass he is. He was homeschooled, for chrissakes. Then again, no one had ridden Sam harder than Mom when it came to academics. Dean, after all, was a lost cause.

          He grabs his coat from where its heaped on the floor and shrugs it on, shivering once. Something digs into his chest when he pulls it tight around him. Wincing, Dean pats at the thick wool, thinking a rock must’ve rolled into his pocket when he was on the floor of the parking garage.

          Instead, his search yields a solid square surface.

          He’s mystified for half a second until he remembers. _The bracelet box!_

Nearly ripping the buttons in his haste, he finds the pocket tucked into the inner lining of his coat. Sure enough, his fingers close around hard velvet, and he goes dizzy with excitement.

          He hurries to the cot, legs dangling as he takes a seat and pries the lid open. Nestled against the black pillow is the silver flash drive. Things had escalated at the parking garage so rapidly, he’d completely forgotten the drive in Crowley’s possession wasn’t the real thing.

          Oh. Oh, this changes things.

          Giddy, Dean inspects the innocuous piece of technology. So this is what has Cas and his cronies all twisted up. Talk about an ace up his sleeve. He’s got something they want, and they’ve got the key to his cage. He’ll have to be smart about bargaining, though. Cas is a stubborn son of a bitch. If he reveals he’s got the real drive on him, there’s nothing stopping Bianca or Ricky from wrestling it from him.

          Cas may know Dean like the back of his hands, but Dean used to watch the guy with the fascination of the damned gazing upon the divine.

          Tightening his grip on the flash drive, Dean plots.

                                     

         

          They walk down a narrow hallway. The carpet is beige, with interesting loops and swirls like the Turkish rugs Mom hoarded. The color is muted like it hasn’t seen the fun end of a vacuum in a while. The walls are stark white and bare, the occasional crack or water stain the only blemishes in the hospital-like monochrome.

          Ricky’s hand on his elbow chafes, but Dean resists the urge to shake him off. He’s feeling much better, either from finally popping the offered Advil or anticipation, he’s not sure.

          “Are you feeling better?” Ricky asks. The sympathy in his voice is sincere, which only irks Dean further.

          “Some.”

          “We should’ve offered to take you to the bathroom sooner. Sorry about that.”

          “’s fine.”

          The lull is awkward and strained. Dean’s relieved when the bathroom finally comes into sight at the end of the grim hallway. He throws off Ricky’s hand and ducks in, closing and locking the door behind him. Needing to use the facilities wasn’t a total lie, so he does his business and washes his hands, hesitating at his reflection in the mirror. There are shadows like bruises under his eyes. There’s a crazed, reckless glean in his gaze that makes him swallow hard.

          _Just get this over with, and everything will go back to normal. You can lock Cas up nice and tight where he’ll stay until your drunk or lonely, you’ll sit at your desk and remind Becky to order a new chair because the one you’ve got is bound to fuck your lumbar something nasty._

He ignores the pang at his chest at the thought of going back to a Cas-less existence. This militant asshole is hardly the guy he remembers. Guess Dean’s not the only one who made a few personality tweaks.

          There’s a tentative knock on the door. “Everything okay in there?”

          Dean unlatches the lock and steps back. He steps next to the toilet, flash drive pinched between index finger and thumb over the bowl. “You can come in.”

          The door swings open. Ricky blinks at Dean, then at the flash drive held hostage, suspended over its watery death. “Uh…what’re you doing?”

          “Call Castiel.”

          “He’s busy right now. What’s going on? What’s that?”

          Busy, huh? Dean’s fingers tighten spasmodically on the drive. An old instinct rears its ugly head, dulled claws raking at Dean. Of course Cas isn’t sitting around thinking about Dean. Doubtful he’s spared even a moment to remember the boy who broke his heart way back when.

          “He might be interested to know that the flash drive with Crowley is a fake. The real one is here, and two seconds from finding Nemo if you don’t go fetch me the boss.”

          Ricky regards him with pursed lips, clearly trying to figure out if Dean’s lying. The risk that he’s not must be too great, because he points at Dean and barks, “Stay here,” before peeling down the hall.

          Dean wipes his sweaty hand while Ricky’s vanishes around the corner. Would be quite the anticlimax if he fumbled the drive into the toilet.

          When Ricky reappears, he’s not alone.

          Castiel walks at an even pace, completely unhurried. Meanwhile Ricky looks like he’s swallowed a lemon, likely flummoxed by his boss’s nonchalance.

          He takes in Dean’s defensive stance and the dangling flash drive.

          “I suppose it’s fitting that you’ve resorted to dramatics to get your point across.”         

          Dean’s blood boils. He tamps his resentment down. Cas sure knows exactly which buttons to push, doesn’t he?

          “Worked, didn’t it? Here you are.”

          “Here I am,” he agrees softly. “What is it you want, Dean?”

          “I get the impression this flash drive is important to your little operation. I gave Crowley a fake. The real one can be yours for the small price of my freedom.”

          “A fake, huh?” The corner of Castiel’s mouth twitches. “I see your predilection for Steven Seagal movies lives on.”

          “The guy knows what he’s doing, alright?”

          “Debatable.”

          “Uh, sir? The flash drive?” Ricky prompts.

          Castiel crosses his arms over his chest and sighs. “Dean, I already told you there’s no leaving until Crowley’s been apprehended. I don’t understand why you’re so reckless with your own safety.”

          “I’m not,” Dean insists. “There’s security around campus and administration buildings, a police station not two blocks from my office, and I can install a security system at home.”

          “Do you think a criminal like him will be deterred by _campus police_?” Cas says derisively. “Crowley’s got plenty of cops on his payroll. Even if he were arrested, he’d be back on the street in no time. The damage to you would already be done.”

          At the end of his rope, Dean rakes his free hand through his hair. Cas follows the movement, a flash of _something_ stirring there. “Well, what the hell do you expect me to do? I can’t bunk down here and weather the storm, okay? I can’t. I have a job, responsibilities.”

          “Dean.” The flight-risk voice, fuck. Dean’s never been partial to this particular cocktail of patience and determination in Castiel’s tone, since it usually came at the tail-end of another of Dean’s poor decisions. “Crowley’s bound to have discovered your ploy by now. He’ll come after you ten times harder.”

          The idea hits Dean like a bolt of lightning. “Then protect me on my turf. Yeah, yeah, that’s perfect! You can send some of your lackeys to tail me, like a protective detail, follow me to work and back or something. Maybe stay at a motel nearby so I can call if there’s an emergency.”

          Cas doesn’t seem as thunderstruck as Dean by this plan, but Dean pushes forward. “Think about it. I’m going to be a complete pain in the ass while I’m cooped up here. I’ll be making things as hard as they can possibly be, and you’ll end up wasting more resources just to keep me under control. Out there, I’ll still be under your witness protection or whatever, and I’ll be totally cooperative. When you have Crowley behind bars, I’ll happily skedaddle to the witness stand and help you put the bastard away.”

          Caught up in the brilliance of it, Dean drops the flash drive.

          Sometime during Dean’s spiel, Cas had inched further into the bathroom. In a lightning-quick move, he snatches the flash drive in midair, halting the sick lurch in Dean’s stomach.  

          His relief is short-lived. Fucking hell. His bargaining chip is gone. Dean’s empty hand curls into a fist at his side.

          Instead of triumph, the look on Cas’ face is thoughtful. He regards Dean with a calculating sort of consideration. Dean waits glumly for the gloating, the swift rejection of his proposal.

          “They’d have to be present in your office and home. Crowley has associates that are unfamiliar to us.”

          Dean’s at a loss for words. “Uh.”

          “Do you have a spare room at your home?”

          “Yeah, I-I have a guestroom. Spare mattress in the garage, too.”

          Cas nods. “Good. How about your office? Would there be room for someone to set up a station?”

          He really doesn’t want to give any answers that might dissuade Cas from this promising line of thought, but being dishonest won’t help his cause. “Not really. There’s a stuffed chair wedged in the corner and a bathroom. I work for a public university. They’re not what you’d call loose-fisted with cash.”

          Undeterred, Cas continues, “That’s alright. I can arrange for you to be temporarily switched to an office large enough to accommodate another desk.”

          Dean thinks about Stephen getting a call demanding Dean be swapped out of his office and almost laughs. Stephen’s an okay guy, but as far as boss’s go, he’s definitely on the stingy side. Both in the workplace and outside of it. “Good luck with that.”

          In the hall, Bianca materialized beside Ricky, her typical frown firmly affixed. She glances inquiringly at Ricky, who responds with a helpless shrug. Dean can’t resist smirking, earning himself a curled lip.

          “I think this plan can work,” Cas says, ignoring their childish display. “One person will be with you at all times, from home to work and anything in between. We’ll equip your house with heavy security, and I’ll see if I can’t find a location on your street for a few guards to set up camp until this blows over.”

          A person with him at all times? Yeesh. Talk about suffocating. Still, Dean will take it a million times over if it means he doesn’t lose his job and stay sequestered in this steel prison. As long as its not Blondie, he can make it work.

          Dean wonders why Cas is doing this. Sure, Dean made a sound argument, but this approach must be making Castiel’s job a lot harder. He’s got nothing to hold over his head now that the drive’s gone. So why is he doing this?

          If Cas reads the question in Dean’s face, he chooses not to answer. “We should have a plan of action sketched out by tonight. If you’ll cooperate until then, I’d like to have Stu check you out one more time.”

          “And eat,” Ricky pipes up. “He hasn’t eaten since we brought him in.”

          “And eat.” Cas strides out of the bathroom, Bianca at his heels. “Once that’s finished, call Charlie and gather the others in the conference room.”

          Dean watches him go, baffled and irritated and grateful.

          Ricky walks him back to his room. “So, how do you feel about omelets?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late because my internet is shiiiiiiiiiiiiiit. I'm leaving to England in a week and a half and applying to law schools is giving me stress hives on my SOUL. 
> 
> The bees bless those who leave comments and kudos ;)


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